As we crossed over the bridge where the Danube meets the Sava, a slum appeared before me, which reminded me of something one might see in a documentary of a developing country such as India or Kenya. I woke my academic director to ask her about this cardboard city, and she informed me that it was the Roma (Gypsy) settlement. This is where the people live that I will be working with in less than three weeks. Harsh ironies unfolded before my eyes. Through my frosty window I could see barefoot, and raggedly dressed children darting through the trash. The Hyatt overlooked this hopeless shanty town, where it seemed that Belgrade had forced all its brown skinned inhabitants.

I was nauseous for the duration of our first day in Belgrade. In general, I hate the word “victim” because it speaks only of persecution and not of hope, but this community (Roma) is not yet a community of survivors. They are struggling to make it through each day since they lack support for the fundamental functions of a human life. They are ignored, secretive, persecuted and unknown, plagued by rootlessness and by the game of Us versus Them, which is still conducted in the language of the conquerors—or of the “host” society. When all the beggars in a city are from the same minority group (the largest in Europe), and among these beggars are 12 and 13 year old girls nursing their first child, the word victim must be used, so that the severity of the situation is not underestimated.

My aim is not to bash Belgrade, for my week there was among the most fulfilling in my life. I recognize that this is a bold statement, but there have been few weeks in which I have felt so much. Not all of these feelings were blissful, sometimes they were pangs of unrelenting sadness or frustration, but the point is that I felt. And to feel is to be alive, so perhaps, this past week is best described as one during which I truly lived, was present in every moment, and open to every possibility. Each day we visited at least two NGOs where young activists shared their experiences. This past week I met the most passionate group of young adults in the world. Their energy and enthusiasm made me question if I have been asleep the last several years. Among the dozen or so young adults I met, are several potential roommates for next month, and I eagerly anticipate reengaging with them.

After each conversation with a young activist, I questioned why they had such fire, and while my intention is not to stereotype their experiences, I do have some hypothesis which I consider well-founded. Their image has been determined for them. The world community views “Serbians” as Chetnik-hat-wearing, ignorant, persecutors. They are remembered for what they did in Kosovo and Serbenica. Essentially, they remain the 90s equivalent of faceless Middle-Eastern terrorists, but these young activists are not willing to accept the joke of civil society left by Milosovic and they refuse to be defined by events they protested against. As result, their voices are louder, they view their agendas as more urgent, and they refuse to be complacent….I interviewed a young man name Boban, who ended up asking me just as many questions as I had prepared for him. After our interview which took place in a traditional Serbian hole-in-the-wall kafana, he told me that he felt sorry for my generation of Americans. I initially laughed. This young man, limited by his passport and constrained by a chaotic and corrupt government felt sorry for me?? But when I asked him why, he told me that it seems that Americans no longer care. Life has become too easy we have nothing we consider worth fighting for, and thus we have forgotten how to actually embrace our lives. He told me that traveling beyond Eastern Europe was among his wildest dreams, yet Americans can travel anywhere, and we don’t. I am still reflecting on his words.

While I miss Belgrade, I am glad to be back in Zagreb, and I rest with the assurance that I will soon return. Ksenja, my host mother informed me that she and Katarina (my host sister) plan to visit me in Serbia during my independent study. I cannot tell you how significant and shocking this is for me. The cost of this trip for them is unimaginable, and the fact they would enter Serbia, a country they still fear and discriminate against demonstrates a love that I do not feel I deserve. Ksenja has not entered Serbia since the war, but she desires to learn about the research I am doing there, and does not like the idea of my being gone so long. I don’t think any of us have really processed that I will be leaving at Christmas, but we will continue to pretend that this is not so as long as possible.

This week has been a very humbling experience, but I knew all my bragging of remaining the only one of the group not to have gotten sick would eventually bite me in the arse. I started this week out with by passing a kidney stone, which I assume is the result of the combination of my calcium supplements, the ridiculous amount of dairy my family force feeds me, and the high calcium concentration in the water. The kidney stone was followed by the onset of Roseola, which apparently affects adults on vary rare occasions. As I sit her with aching joints and what look like chicken pocks all over my entire body, I must say I would have preferred to have had a cold like the other students. I am trying to remain optimistic, but we leave for Serbia tomorrow where I have been warned is not a very friendly place for asthmatics (since they still use coal for heating). I cannot rid myself of the image of my lying in a hostel bunk, wheezing, itching, and unable to pee. After packing all my medications, there was just enough room left in my backpack for a clean pair of underwear and a toothbrush, thank goodness.

Oh, this week has not been all so bleak, actually it has been rather humorous and exciting. What stands out among all these events however, is declaring my independent research project. I will be in northern Serbia, working with Roma (Gypsy) women and children, and attempting to understand why they are disproportionately affected by sexual violence, as well as victimized by trafficking. Honestly, I am terrified, but not for reasons you might expect. I have already been able to look past images of “Behind Enemy Lines” and Milosević’s destructive reign. It is not fear of my own safety, but rather my fear of the guilt I will experience when having to say farewell to this marginalized group. As I grapple with the month I will spend with these young women and children, I wonder how I will be able to leave them and come home to so much comfort and surplus. How will I say farewell, when I still have unanswered questions, and an unsatisfied desire to see this group empowered?

On a lighter note, Friday was a considerably strange night. After an intense week of studying we decided to go dancing. We arrived at a discotheque recommended as the best place to go dancing in Zagreb, only to be met by two men dressed in black suites who needless to say, looked disapprovingly at my converse sneakers, messy hair, and paper boy hat (ok, so my image has begun to lean a little toward the shabby side haha). Thank goodness I understood Croatian! They explained that that evening was a private party for the premier of a Croatian movie about windsurfing, so the crowd was mostly Croatian celebrities and athletes. Just as I sighed and turned to leave he asked me to hold on a minute. He explained to someone on the other side of his walkie-talkie that he had a special group of American guests here for the premier, and asked that someone be sent down to escort us. He winked at us, and told us to get him if we had any problems. Several moments later, after we checked our hoodies and sweatshirt at the coat-check, we entered a room full of modelesque women and men… we stood out haha, but it turned out to be one of the most amazing evenings we had had thus far. In retrospect, I think there had been a misunderstanding due to the language barrier, and everyone seemed to think we were important since we got VIP treatment, and were introduced to everyone there… Oh Croatia. Haha

All in all, this semester is passing far too quickly. I keep telling my parents that they should come here instead of me coming home, and while they laugh, I’m serious. I think that there is so much to be learned from the people here. I was interviewing a young activist the other day and she relayed to me how confused she was during her visit to New York City. She could not understand why sales persons were so kind to here but then turned to the next customer before she had a chance to respond how she was. “Why do American’s pretend to care about others if they do not?” she asked. I did not know how to respond. Also she was shocked by how selfish many individuals were that she encountered. She explained in horror how people would not let elders have the seats on the subways and individuals would not smile and say “hello” on elevators. “The thing is,” she said, “it only took me several days to also become cold, so I don’t think Americans should be blamed. It was much harder to learn to become warm again when I came home.” I told her that the south is probably a little different but not completely. It’s ironic how I had a preconceived notion of Eastern Europe as dark, bleak, and desolate, but it is here that it has taken me time to such overwhelming warmth. Strangers will take twenty minutes to walk you to the location you cannot find on your map, if you lack the amount to pay a bill, you will be told not to worry about it with a smile, and if you are walking in the rain, a stranger will often run up to you to share their umbrella. I am still struggling to accept this intense warmth without discomfort, but trying even harder to naturally participate in distributing it.

I have been journaling a bit on my own this morning…as well as looking over some of my personal entries from this past week, and it is apparent how certain environments deny one the ability to live in a way that they would typically chose. I just returned last night from backpacking, during which it became official that have-been necessities like make-up, shaving, mirrors, convenience, and predictability have transformed into frivolity. At home, the lack of all of these would be enough to drive me mad, but I am falling in love with the comfort of simplicity, and becoming a master at the art of making a pair of clothes and a shower last at least three to four days…

While in Istria we stayed at a vineyard right off the coast of the Adriatic. It was one of those places I wished I could have experienced with my mom. It was divinely simple: clean starched sheets, wood-floors, countless little nooks to curl up in with a novel . We spent our evenings sipping local wine and eating homemade hot walnut bread with olive oil. Our conversations ranged from Foucaultian theory to joking about how a cruise ship passed me while I was skinny dipping in the Adriatic (a private experience, until captured by a group of Asian tourists on their camcorders.)

We then traveled to Slovenia by bus…which would have been pleasant if only our driver had not had a fetish for Britney spears, which he insisted on playing the entire five hour ride. But the hostel that awaited us in Ljubljana was by far worth the wait. Once an old military prison, it has been transformed into a hostel by a group of artists who have decorated it in modern batik. The rooms have bars on the doors and windows, which I must say makes one feel very safe at night…Ljubljana resembled a hybrid of Disney world, Venice and New England. Everything was entirely too charming and made Zagreb seem something along the lines of a Charles Dickens novel in comparison…however, I think the very strangest part of the whole trip was when coming back to Zagreb, I felt like I was coming home. We headed to our local spot for a beer and popcorn before I returned to my home family who awaited me with hugs and kisses. It is nice hear, but by no means central Europe. The streets are filed with gypsy children, the city is disorganized, and the “nice” spots are little hole in the wall bars and restaurants. My comfort here startles me, but I cannot think of any time I have been so content with my surroundings.

While in Ljubljana we met with individuals working at the peace institute who spoke on a variety of issues, however, none have drawn me in so much as that of the situation of gypsy women and children. This group is disproportionately vulnerable to sexual violence and trafficking because they are severely discriminated against, and lack a recognized nationality beyond nomad. As I continue to ponder what I will research, I keep in mind that I intend not only to research, but also give back to community I will work with. I fear that at the end of the day I might not discover how might their condition can be changed, or how they might they be empowered. Am I being to idealistic? Is it actually possible to shift a long cemented paradigm? I am still not certain the angle I will take, but I am beginning to identify a need, that while I realize I am inadequate to fill, I will try anyways. The other day someone told be that according to the laws of aero-dynamics, a bumble-bee should not be able to fly…but it does not know that. I want to forget my limitations; because I yearn to do what I know is greater than myself.

oh, how critical it is to maintain a sense of humor along the way...

(Istria)

(Slovenia)

Today the most amazing thing happened…I had time for a nap! I found my way home despite my zombie-esque state, to collapse in my little twin bed for three lovely hours of splendid slumber. I cannot imagine any other way I would rather have celebrated the freedom Friday afternoon. I fully intend on remaining in my pajamas from now until tomorrow afternoon. Erica, a fellow SIT student who has quickly become a dear friend, is coming over tonight for an evening of chocolate, vino (wine), and movies…

Monday we leave for an excursion to Istria and Slovenia where a women’s rights festival will be taking place! I have been counting down the days until this week since I arrived in the Balkans. Do not get me wrong, the last several weeks have been wonderful; but to be quite frank, the material we have studied has been heavy and drab, particularly since I am not the biggest fan of history. I tend to soak it up more like a rock than a sponge. While I recognize it is critical to consider the history of the region before we delve into human rights movements (which is largely why I came), this is a painful undertaking. Just to give you a glimpse into my relationship with our history seminar, I will have you know I have been donned with nickname “Dori,” the fish from Finding Nemo who cannot focus on anything for more than 3 seconds before she gets distracted and forgets everything she knows. I sigh with relief at the opportunity to close my 700 page book on the “Balkans” which will forever remind me of the time I spent in Croatian purgatory.

Today Zagreb was in a huff over the verdicts pronounced by UN war crimes tribunal in The Hague for three men convicted of war crimes in 1991. This was concerning their actions in Vukovar, the city in which I will likely be conducting my research (BBC link > http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/7017758.stm). I bring this story up because I think it is interesting how the information presented by the media is often skewed when their commitment to remaining PC takes president over the truth. The BBC minimized the crimes of these men, and did not even mention their ethnicity. There was a much different story circulating in Zagreb this morning…The Croatian headlines read “SHAME!” Apparently the three men were Serbian, and collectively received less time than any one Croat brought before the Hague. Additionally these men did not kill only one or two individuals, they forced hundreds of innocent civilians into a hospital in Vukovar, where they proceeded to torture and kill them. I feel that I must believe this story because it comes from the months of individuals who lost family members in this massacre. I say all of this only to express the caution I recognize one must approach the media with. This is my first experience personally witnessing an international source telling a story about a people who will straight up tell you that it is wrong.

This week we also visited the Croatian parliament (Sabor) where we met with the youngest member, and on Thursday we visited the HDZ (the leading party) head-quarters. It is amazing how I am able to have experiences here which would likely be inaccessible at home. I had to laugh at our visit to HDZ where we were all given goody-bags with HDZ hats, shirts, lighters, and fanny-packs. A photographer was taking countless pictures of the HDZ party with “America’s youth.” The whole situation was so ridiculous. I had about as much business visiting HDZ as I would have working on Bush’s campaign. They are the party who has ventured past the conservative right, so far right that I am certain they fell off the end and hit their heads…At least they gave me cookies and milk.

Tomorrow is yoga and hiking, then going to the lake with some friends, and Sunday packing for our excursion…expect an update soon. Dovidenja!

I reflect on the last three weeks in disbelief, particularly because I have not fallen ill, or even worried that I was dying of some strange illness (I tend to be somewhat of a hypochondriac). I have the immune system similar to that of the bubble-boy, yet I am the only member of our entire group that has not experienced some version of the plague. What a blessing. The only thing I risk falling victim to is cardiac arrest. I don’t think I have ever consumed so much dairy and meat in my entire life.
On this lovely Sunday, I look out my window and past the apple and plum trees that fill our yard are the mountains, and on one of these majestic hills resides the castle (Medvegrad) that I will be hiking to with my host family for lunch today. My host mother insists that we all need fresh air, or we will surely get meningitis. We are, however, embarking on our adventure a little earlier than typical, because I plan on taking the afternoon bus to Trg Bana Josipa Jelacica (the main city square) for yoga (joga). After that I will most likely meet my friend Jan for kava at one of the hundreds of cafés which flood the streets of the Zagreb. He is a film producer who although Croatian, grew up in London, and has quickly become someone I consider a friend, and because of his English fluency, a comfort.
I suppose this is all for now, I just felt that I would give you an idea of a typical Sunday. This week should be a little less stressful than last. We visit parliament tomorrow, but the rest of the week is very normal: Croatian in the morning and thematic seminar in the afternoon. I am debating spending the weekend in Budapest, however, Monday morning we leave for Slovenia and Istria, so this might be a stretch. We shall see. Bok!

Goodnesss gracious…Rumor has it that third times a charm, so hopefully this attempt to portray a glimpse into my challenging, humorous, stressful and providential adventure in the Balkans will satisfy those of you to who had expected such an anecdote much sooner…My first attempt at blogging was on one of those days filled with so many frustrations that my blog appeared more like a list of grievances. Now, however, I have accepted that my time here will generously provide me with four months of culture shock, thus the day to day challenges of functioning are humorous, and if nothing else, predictable. Maybe placing “shock” and “predictable” together sounds like an “oxymoron,” but this word is actually not too far from an accurate description of my day to day experiences. I am sure I will be unsure about most things, I predict the unpredictable, and I suspect the unexpected. I am, however, functioning much more effectively, now that I have realized that all doors here open the opposite direction, and the first floor in every building is actually the second.

My second attempt to blog was almost completed when I lost electricity and with it my blog during a storm. So here I sit, with nearly three weeks of craziness on my mind, hoping to consolidate it in some coherent form for you. I believe that this attempt was meant to me. I just finished to exams today, one on the breakup of the former Yugoslavia and one in Croatian. I believe I dominated them both, and I attribute my success to the clarity I have derived from my new Yoga class as well as my fervent efforts to learn Croatian to that I can understand what terrible and immature things my host brothers are saying behind my back.

I can’t say I expected to begin regularly practicing Yoga in Croatia haha, but it is one of the essential element of my day, and rather funny when I take a step back and think about it. I am the only non-Croatian in the class, so my instructor insists on speaking in broken English so that I can “understand.” I don’t know how the other 20 members of the class feel about this. I had to find some sort of physical activity to counter act the effects of this culture of eating….My families favorite part of the day is feeding me. They have this game called “feed Becca every single one of her favorite foods at every meal and make sure she eats all of it.” At first it was nice to have caprese salad, omelets, yogurt with granola, brochette, cake, cookies, and coffee at every meal, but after three weeks it becomes a little overwhelming. I have begun to feel a little bit like an overfed exotic pet.

I say “pet,” because last night I learned that the reason that my host family “adopted” me this semester, is because Bepo, 12, my youngest host brother, wanted his own American, hahahaha. Bepo was so proud last night as he showed me his English test where he was asked to write about himself, it read as follows:

Hello, my name is Bepo. I live in Zagreb, Croatia. I have a mom, a dad, a
brother, a sister, three turtles, a fish, and an American. She does too much homework and does not play with me enough.

I laughed so hard I almost fell out of my seat….

Academics? How could I forget to mention them. Are my classes hard? In short, yes, but for a very different reason than at home. The challenge of functioning out of my comfort zone makes everything more challenging. I am not used to commuting an hour to class, being in class most of the day, and going home to a family I then spend time with. I had not realized how overly comfortable I had become in my independent and selfish life. Coming here has been a reality check, but for the better.

Oh, Croatia. I already see a love-hate relationship developing between us. Zagreb is a lovely city, but with an element of sadness about it, which never seems to completely subside…the city leaves me with a feeling similar to that which I experience when viewing a masterpiece I cannot step away from, but which simultaneously provokes uncomfortable feelings and sadness. They say that ignorance is bliss, but I don’t see how I can be happy without understanding the sources of pain of many women in this region. I had expected to hop across the ocean, understand everything around me, know the answers to all the questions….I was wrong. I must admit to the great challenge ahead of me, but I also feel a drive that gives me strength which I know it not my own.

I know this is a lot of babbling, but I am all over the place right now trying to learn, playing with my little host brothers, writing an essay on ethnic tensions, commuting to class from my little mountain village, and trying to find some time for rest. It is hard to believe that I am on the other side of the world, that here live millions of people I had no idea existed. New places and experiences sometimes remind me of one of those three dimensional pictures that you must look at very closely before slowly pulling away from for the image to appear, but without doing so, all you can see is a crazy splash of colors. I am trying to look closely and personally at this city and its people so that I am not overwhelmed by my lack of knowledge and the newness of it all, and ultimately, that slowly but surely a picture might emerge, one which I am meant to see and understand.